


The Way You Make Me Feel

by SomewhereApart



Series: Oblivion-verse [4]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, F/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sensation Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 08:14:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17863676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomewhereApart/pseuds/SomewhereApart
Summary: It's Regina's birthday, and Robin has some very special plans for her.





	The Way You Make Me Feel

She hadn’t wanted them to make a big fuss over her. That’s what Regina had said. It was her birthday, yes, but she wasn’t a queen here, she was the mayor, a mother, a friend, a lover. She didn’t need Snow to rent out the Town Hall for this land’s closest facsimile to a ball, she didn’t want the back room at Granny’s for an extended family gathering. She wanted dinner, at the mansion, with her family – at most. 

And they’d complied, thankfully, due in no small part to Robin’s interventions. He’d talked Snow down, he’d worked Henry around, and he’d kept things subdued. Quiet. Modest. So when he’d asked her for one simple favor in return – close the Mayor’s office for her birthday and spend it with him – she hadn’t seen any good reason not to comply. But it’s her birthday, it’s nearly noon, and Robin is not with her. Has not been with her all morning, in fact. Not since he dropped a kiss on her lips and told her he was “stepping out to run some birthday errands.” More than that, Robin has asked her to meet him at her office. Her office which is closed. 

She’s torn between annoyance and curiosity – curiosity winning out only slightly, edged ahead by the hope that he’d requested that closed office for a reason. A very private reason. They have good memories in that office – that first picnic in front of the firelight, all warm kisses and wandering hands, tentative shivering orgasms. And other times, more recent times. After-hours quickies, and mid-day romps. With three children in the house, one takes what one can get where one can get it. 

So she hopes that this mid-day office date is at the very least a chance for a little quiet, romantic solitude. And at the very most, something that will leave her knees feeling like jelly.

Robin doesn’t disappoint. 

She lets herself into her office only to find him sitting in the chair behind her desk, bare chested and waiting, elbows on the armrests and hands steepled in front of him. It’s warm in the room. Very warm. The fire is blazing in the hearth, and has been for some time from the feel of it. No wonder he’d left early – her office isn’t nearly as looming as her chambers had been in her castle, but it’s still a large space. It takes a while to heat up. 

“Don’t let the heat out, love,” he tells her, his voice carrying an air of detachment that makes her immediately, inexplicably wet. She closes the door behind her, and turns the lock for good measure as he adds, “We wouldn’t want you to catch a chill.”

Regina swallows thickly – his state of half-undress coupled with the heat were all the indication she needed that this was going to be one of those jelly-kneed office trysts, but his words are enough to confirm it. She’s about to get naked. And when she takes two steps toward him, and he tells her simply, “Stop,” she realizes that she’s about to get _very_ naked, quite possibly for a very long time. 

That’s his dominant voice, no wonder she’s slicking up between the thighs so readily. Her tongue creeps out to wet her lips as she stills and answers dutifully, “Yes, Sir.”

Robin smiles. And the game is set. 

Regina stands still on the opposite side of the room, and waits, and watches, her breath deepening, anticipation growing as Robin simply looks her over. She’s still in her coat, her scarf, her boots. It’s a chilly day, and she was wrapped up tight against Maine’s blustery intrusion. Now she’s overly warm. 

She needs this, _needs_ this. It’s been awhile since they did anything more than hushed dirty talk and firm hands pinning her wrists to the pillows. They’ve been busy with life, with children, with keeping this town alive and in good running order. She’s riled and ready, and he hasn’t even touched her yet. 

Regina has the fleeting thought that this will be exquisite hell if she’s already this turned on, because she knows his favorite game and it’s denial, denial, denial until she can’t breathe or think or wait another _second_ to come. She already feels like she’s halfway there, and catapults nearly the whole rest of the way when he asks idly, “Do you remember what you told me after that time I took you here on your desk?”

“Which time?” she asks, almost ashamed at the husky quality of her own voice. She needs to rein it in, my God, they’ve only just started. Haven’t even started.

Robin gives a stern look, and says, “You know what time, love. Don’t play coy. If you play coy, I may not give you what you asked for.”

Her mouth goes dry, her gaze flicking over toward the conference table for the first time since she walked in, and finally noticing that one of the chairs has one of her silk scarves draped over the back, and the leather handle of their riding crop peeking over the seat.

“I remember, Sir,” she tells him, because oh, yes, yes she does.

“I thought you might,” he tells her, and she can hear his smirk from here, even with her gaze still trained on the table and chairs. There are other things on the seat, she thinks, but the drape of the scarf is obscuring them. “And what did you confess to me that night? What was it again that you said you wanted?”

“I wanted you to take me on the table, spread and tied, Sir.”

“And?”

“And I wanted the crop.”

“And do you still want those things, love?”

She looks at him then, finally, a sort of incredulous sarcasm-drenched stare, and asks, “Can you see me right now?”

He grins, tells her, “I can. You’re already flushed. And that’s quite enough cheek from you, young lady. Come here and take your clothes off.” Regina doesn’t waste any time, striding across her office toward the desk, Robin turning his chair until she can stand directly in front of him. “It may be your birthday,” he muses, relaxing back into the seat as she reaches for the top button of her coat, “but I’d quite like to enjoy the unwrapping of _my_ gift. So, take your time. We’ve all day.”

Regina inhales deeply, slowly, the words _all day_ sinking into her skin and making her even warmer. She releases another button, one more, slowly. Another. Meets his gaze, and smiles at him. 

“Thank you,” she whispers, as the last button is freed and the front of her coat opens. She wishes she’d worn something sexier than a sweater and skinny slacks. Something that would be more of a treat for him.

“Of course, love,” he tells her warmly, adding, “Let it fall to the floor,” when she fiddles with her lapels, unsure where he wants her discarded clothes to end up. She does as instructed, shrugs her arms out of her sleeves and lets the dark material slip from her shoulders to puddle at her feet. She wants to hang it, he must know she does, but this is what he asked for, so this is what he gets. 

She loosens her scarf next, shivers at the feel of the soft material dragging against her nape as she pulls it away. 

“Regina, my love?” he asks, reaching out for the scarf before she has a chance to let it join the coat on the ground.

“Yes, Sir?”

He draws the scarf slowly through his fingertips, meets her gaze and tells her, “You’re not going to come for a very, very long time.” Shit. She knew that was coming, but it doesn’t do anything to help with the way she clenches at the words. “So I’d suggest you start working on some of that mental control. You’re already wound to eleven, it seems. I’d hate for you to disobey straight off.”

She nods, reaches for the hem of her sweater and lifts it slowly, slowly. Tilts her head a little and quirks a brow to tease him. “I’ll do my best, Sir. But I want this, so so badly.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“How badly?” he asks, as that sweater is finally drawn up and over her head. She folds it, can’t help herself, and sets it on the desk, and then turns back to find him admiring the deep burgundy lace of her bra. At least she’d gone sexy with the underthings, she thinks.

She reaches for the button of her slacks as she admits, “I’m soaked. Have been since I realized what we were doing here.”

“Stop,” he orders, and she hovers, button undone, fingers just grasping the tab of her zipper. “Is that so?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Come closer,” he urges, and she does, takes two steps closer until their knees nearly bump and then another once he widens his to make room for her. She should have seen this coming, but she’s so lust-addled that she doesn’t realize what he’s about to do until his hand is rising, and then she gulps and shuts her eyes. But he’s ordering, “Open them,” almost immediately, and she can’t help dropping her gaze as soon as she obeys, watching as he rubs firmly over her crotch, and _God_ , it feels so good. 

She moans, deep and throaty, because he hasn’t yet told her she can’t. And his hand doesn’t stop, presses in harder and rubs again, again, slow, firm passes over her clit that have her fists clenching and her breath hitching. 

“I can’t feel it yet,” he tells her, disappointment edging his words. “You’ve been wetter.”

She breathes a “Yes, Sir,” because she doesn’t know what else to respond, her hips beginning to rock ever so slightly into his touch reflexively. It’s so good, _so good_ , just what she needs, she could come like this in an embarrassingly short amount of time. But she doesn’t have permission, and doesn’t expect she’ll get it, so she clamps her lower lip in her teeth and hopes he’ll have mercy on her soon. 

A few more seconds pass before he murmurs a quiet, “Oh, you are wet, aren’t you?” and her thighs are beginning to tremble. 

“Yes, Sir,” she gasps, and then, “Please, Sir.”

“Please what?”

“Please stop.”

Robin lifts his brows at that, looks just a little bit impressed. He’d probably been sure she was going to beg for release, and she wants to, oh how she wants to, but what would be the point? Still, she didn’t expect him to actually give in, so she’s surprised (and torn between relief and mild disappointment) when his hand drops away.

“Since it’s your birthday,” he smirks, and then he’s gesturing for her to continue undressing, as he continues, “And since you’re already creaming your trousers.”

Regina’s fingers shake a little as she tugs her zipper down fully, the echo of his touch still throbbing over her clit. She forgets about her knee-high boots until she’s pushing her pants down her thighs, and curses softly, feeling the flush of her cheeks deepen with embarrassment as she tugs them back up and bends to deal with the boots. 

“This isn’t sexy,” she murmurs, and Robin chuckles, strokes his fingers affectionately through her hair and tells her everything about her is sexy. 

“Sit on the desk a moment; let me,” he urges, and Regina does just that. Scoots up onto the edge of the desk and lifts her foot up into his lap so he can draw the long zipper down. He shifts her another inch away from the obvious bulge in his pants, and then takes his time, frees her of one boot and then the other, rubs his palms firmly up her calves, her knees, kneads them along her thighs until she arches her back and moans softly.

“I think…” he begins softly, “that you may be too riled up for what we have planned.”

Regina’s stomach drops, the pleasant, percolating warmth in her belly fizzling out cold at his words. “What? No. I’m not, I can—”

“Hush, love,” he urges, and her mouth snaps shut into an apprehensive scowl. Things had been going so well… “I simply meant that perhaps you’d fare better if you had a release first. A little birthday gift from me, to you.”

Oh, that’s… that’s much better. That anxious knot in her belly unravels, and she nods, whispers, “Please. I don’t know how long I can hold out.”

“And as much fun as that is for me,” he smiles at her. “It seems a bit cruel on your special day. So you’re going to take off those pants now, and then I’m going to tell you just how I want you to touch yourself for me.”

She licks her lips and nods, shimmies out of her slacks and folds them up, too. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t a little disappointed that it seems she’ll be the one giving herself this orgasm and not Robin, but at this point she’ll take what she can get. Whatever will help her break this tension just a little so she can enjoy the delicious torture he has planned.

By the time her slacks are neatly set aside, Robin has slid his chair between her thighs, spreading them wide, giving himself no doubt a very nice view if the way he’s staring at her crotch and absently licking his lips is any indication. She straightens a little, settles her hands on her thighs and reminds, “You asked me to take my clothes off, Sir. Is this sufficient, or do you want me nude?”

“Oh, no, I think I want you just like this,” he husks, his fingertips on her calves now, ghosting up and down, making the muscles twitch. “I like this color on you. Should have asked you to wear your garters.”

“It’s not too late,” she reminds him with a little shrug. “Magic.”

Robin hums, and nods, tells her, “Too true.” His fingertip taps against her knee, and then he instructs, “What you have on now stays, love. But add the garters, and the black stockings I love, yeah?”

Regina nods, murmurs an affirmative, and focuses long enough for a little transformative swirl of smoke. It leaves her just as requested, black garters, black stockings, and her still-soaked panties and lacy bra. She watches Robin’s irises darken with lust, his palms skimming up over soft fabric, thumbs tucking under the strap of her garters, and then he murmurs, “I want you to feel how wet you are, love.”

 _Finally_ , Regina thinks, wasting no time in sending one hand down between her thighs. She hadn’t been lying, the silk is drenched, warm and damp and sticking to her. She runs her fingertips over her clit and sighs, but his hands squeeze tightly at her thighs.

“I didn’t say you could rub that,” he warns. “I said feel how wet you are; that’s all.”

“I’m sorry, Sir,” she breathes, skimming her fingertips lower, the touch teasing and tickling. “I’m so sensitive, Sir.”

“I know, love. And I know I said you get a free pass, but I want to be clear: You still need my permission to cash it in, so to speak.”

Regina bites her lip, and nods, strokes her fingertips lazily along the crotch of her panties until they’re molded to her even more distinctly, her clit starting to throb from lack of attention. But she waits, her thigh twitching once under the pressure of his still-stroking thumbs. 

“Good,” he murmurs. “Now, you may touch your clit. _Gently_. Just one fingertip, please.”

God, he’s going to torture her with this, too, isn’t he?

Regina lets her fingertip slide up and caress her clit; it’s already swollen and sensitive, even that light touch making her clench, making her needy. She doesn’t mean for the whispered, “Please,” to break through her lips, but it does.

Robin just smirks. 

“Just like that love, nice and slow. Little circles now, still soft. You like those little circles...”

“Yes, Sir,” she breathes, because she does, and he knows it, and she likes them almost as much now, when it’s her own familiar touch tracing tight spirals over the sensitive bud, as she does when it’s his own firmer, calloused fingers. The silk barrier dulls the sensation, but only a little, only just enough to make everything smooth and delectable, just enough to make it that much _better._

“You are so gorgeous, my love,” he murmurs, and right now she feels it. Like this, with him, she always feels stunning. Sexy, and uninhibited, and beautiful. It doesn’t hurt that he goes out of his way to tell her he finds her so, especially when they’re like this. Tells her how beautiful she is when she comes, how lovely she looks all bound up for him. “But as lovely as you are just like this, I think I’d like to see your breasts.”

“Yes, Sir,” Regina nods, but she doesn’t stop that circling finger, indulges just a second longer, until he’s giving her a firm, _Now, Regina._ Right. Don’t look a gift orgasm in the mouth, she tells herself, forcing that hand away and twisting back to unhook her bra. It falls away to reveal nipples already tight with arousal, her breasts flecked with goosebumps even in the comfortable warmth of the room. 

The little moan Robin lets out at the sight of them is a relief; he’s gotten so good at hiding his arousal, at keeping it firmly controlled while they do this, that those little signs of how affected he is are always a treat. And at least she’s not the only one keyed up and wanting. 

He must want very much, because he skims his palms up from her thighs, over her belly, cups the swells and thumbs her nipples gently. Regina presses further into his touch, wants to bring her own back to her aching clit, but he hasn’t given her permission for that, has he? So she places her hands on her thighs and lets him touch, lets him circle his thumbs over her nipples again and then grasp and squeeze them in a way that has her letting loose a high little whine of pleasure. 

The sensation is warm and radiating, echoes down to her sex and back up, and she writhes a little as he tugs and twists and plays with her. “ _Robin_ …” she moans, and he stills. Shit. “Sir.”

He really is giving her grace for her birthday, because he lets that one slide, moves a hand around to her back to urge her forward until he can catch a nipple in his teeth. He gives her a gentle little bite, one side, and then the other, and then another sharp nip that makes her squeak. Not _quite_ letting it slide, apparently… 

“Say you’re sorry,” he murmurs, tongue teasing out afterward to soothe the tingling ache his teeth had left. 

“I’m sorry, Sir,” she (okay, yes) whines. “I’m just so…” 

The delightful suction of his mouth distracts her from the rest of her thought, and then he’s murmuring, “I have plans for these later,” squeezing and tugging, firmly now, and her thighs are clenching. She wants to close them, to press them hard together and get _some_ kind of friction, but her desk chair and his torso are still in the way and she’s left hanging. 

Wasn’t this supposed to be relief?

“Sir, please,” she whispers, feeling an answering rush of air against her breast that she thinks is probably a snicker. Bastard.

“Rub your clit again,” he murmurs against her skin, giving her other nipple one last suck before sitting back in his chair to enjoy the show. 

“Hard or soft, Sir?” she asks, because she knows it will matter.

“Nice and firm now, love.”

Thank God.

She presses two fingers hard to her clit and tremors immediately, so close she can taste it, but she doesn’t have permission yet. She thinks he murmurs something about her being beautiful, but she’s concentrating too hard on keeping the tightening, clenching pulses in her sex from tipping over into the spasms of an actual orgasm to pay attention to his praise. But then there’s a question, he’s asking her something, and she lets out a high, desperate, “Hmm?” when she misses it the first time.

“I asked if you’re going to cry out when you come for me, love.”

“Yes, Sir,” she gasps, and, “Oh, God, Sir, please.”

“You’re trembling.”

She nods frantically, bites her lip hard, her thighs twitching, her ass clenching, and she’s about to ease off the pressure because she _can’t_ hold back any longer, when she feels his palms squeeze just above her knees and hears him say, “Let go now, love, and don’t let up.”

She comes, hard, harder than she’d expected she would when he told her she was going to be the one administering this orgasm. But it’s _good_ , and she lets out a wordless shout, another, a rough, heady moan, keeps pressing and rubbing, hard, doesn’t let up just like he said, until she’s tossing her head back and—

“Stop.”

Regina’s hand falls away immediately, a sigh of satisfied relief tumbling out as she slumps a little. Her thighs are still twitchy, her clit still throbbing but pleasantly now, satisfied. Robin shifts guiding hands to her rear and pulls her down into his lap, draws her into a deep, tongue-filled kiss she can barely hold for catching her breath.

And then he wraps his arms around her middle and murmurs, “Better, love?”

“Yes,” she sighs, cuddling in against him, nose against his neck, lips pressing lightly to his pulse once. Robin rubs her back, brushes her hair away from her shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Good.” One of those hands trails down, cups the curve of her rear and gives it a good squeeze. “Because I intend to tease you today, love. And I expect you to endure it.”

The promise has her biting at a smile, moaning softly in anticipation. “I’m looking forward to it.”

She sits up then, fully, her damp crotch pressing down against his erection as she does. She’s still sensitive, jerks a little at the sensation, but then she rocks slowly. For him more than herself. He hasn’t had so much as a kiss until just now.

The friction works a groan from his throat, his hands falling to her hips and guiding her into a torturously languid pace. “I thought we’d work up to the crop,” he tells her. “I have some – mm, love – other things in mind.”

“Oh?”

“Mmhmm,” he hums, both hands sliding back down to her rear now and kneading as she rocks. “For one, I thought I’d blindfold you. I’ll take it off for the crop, I think. Let you watch, and wait. But until then, I’d like to see how you take to… certain sensations.”

“Good ones?” she asks, without a hint of fear. She trusts him, completely, but it does sometimes help to know whether she’s going to have to prepare herself to withstand pleasure or pain. 

He makes a show of considering, and settles on, “Intense ones. I’d prefer to keep them a surprise, if that’s alright.”

 

She nods, leans in and presses her lips to his gently, pulling back just enough to form the words, “I trust you.”

“And I love you,” he assures, one last rocking grind and one last soft kiss before he asks, “Water?”

Regina shakes her head. “I’m good.”

“Then I’d like you to get rid of those soaked panties, leave the garters for now, and could you pop that scarf over here? I want to retain that air of mystery over my other tools.”

“Yes, Sir,” she purrs, a wiggle of her fingers and little puff of smoke producing the scarf in question. 

In short order, they’ve gotten themselves rearranged for the main event: he carefully secures a blindfold over her eyes before leading her to the table, the smooth surface a little cool against her back as he slips a pillow beneath her head. She smiles at his thoughtfulness, but that smile slips away into an anxious swipe of tongue over lips when he doesn’t ask her to bind herself as usual. Instead he draws her wrists up toward the corners of the table and she feels a strip of something soft, but strong wrap carefully around each one. 

“Is this alright, love?” he asks her, a fingertip slipping between her bonds and her wrist, testing their tightness.

“Yes, Sir,” she reassures him. He likes the magic, she knows, likes the element of freedom it gives her. She’s in complete control. But they’ve been at this a while now, and every now and then they bring something more… concrete into play. Handcuffs, silk scarves tied behind her back or secured to chairs. She trusts him implicitly, but it does add an air of true submission to the whole thing that makes her heart beat a little harder. 

The true bondage, the mystery, the promise of _intensity_. She’s nervous, but in the best way. With both wrists comfortably but snugly secured, he moves down the table, fingertips grazing her skin as he goes, until he’s drawn her ankle within range of another soft tie. He must have secured them to the legs of the table before she got here and left them there unnoticed. But she’s noticing now, with both ankles bound, her legs and arms spread, nothing to cover her but warm air and black stockings, that garter and the blindfold. She must make quite the picture, but it’s not exactly the one she wants. 

“Sir?” she asks, as he’s loosening and adjusting a knot at her ankle. 

“Yes, love?”

“Can I be nude?” She keeps her voice soft, not quite pleading, but polite. “I know you like the garters, but when I imagined this, I imagined it nude.”

“Well, then nude you shall be,” he grants, giving her ankle a gentle squeeze. “Make yourself comfortable, love.”

A little focus, the scent of ozone, and there’s no longer a hint of silk or lace between her skin and the glass of the tabletop. She thanks him, properly, and then focuses on taking a few slow breaths. She can’t feel him anymore, he isn’t touching her, but she can hear him moving around. Can hear the roll of one of the chairs, can hear his footsteps fading a little. He’s preparing for whatever it is he has planned for her, so Regina takes advantage of the momentary calm to center herself.

She focuses on relaxing, lets go of as much tension as she can and tries to find anything that might be a bother. A bond tied a little too tightly, or any spot that might need a little more cushion. But she feels good, feels fine. Comfortable. So she just lets herself breathe, lets her fingers run idly along the silky material of one of her ties, enjoys the darkness, the inherent safety of being like this with him. After a little while she doesn’t even hear the soft sounds of Robin’s movements anymore, too focused on the sound of her own breath, the slowing thud of her heartbeat. 

So the tickle at her wrist takes her entirely by surprise, has her whole body jerking with it from just the gentlest caress. It disappears, and Robin asks softly, “Alright?”

“Yes, Sir,” she breathes. “I just wasn’t expecting you.”

In the darkness, she can hear the soft huff of his chuckle, and then the tickling sensation is back, wandering lazily from wrist to elbow and back, meandering in slow curves that make goosebumps prickle and raise the hairs on the back of her arm. It’s not Robin touching her, too delicate and too soft. When the tickle moves to her palm, her hand twitches with it, fingers wiggling as she gasps. She brushes the edge of it on accident – a feather. 

Suddenly “intense” makes a little more sense. Regina isn’t _overly_ ticklish, except to touches like this. Light, gentle brushes are what set her squirming, and as Robin trails the feather down the length of her arm again she scratches at her palm as best she can to ease the lingering sensation there. 

As he approaches her underarm, she grimaces, tensing, but Robin skirts it, heading across her collar instead and murmuring a quiet, drawn out, “Relax… Just feel, love. That’s what you’re going to do today… Just feel…”

Sensory play. She’s heard of this, she’s read things since they started their foray into this sort of thing. And she supposes they’ve done it before – candle wax, and teasing caresses, and things of that nature. But the feather is new, and she finds herself slow to adjust, searching for the sensuality in the tickling drag of it up her throat. It brushes her lip and she presses them together, the bridge of her nose and she wrinkles it and turns instinctively to the side. But he veers back toward her ear, down the side of her neck, and suddenly sensation blooms, more goosebumps flaring as she shivers and gasps.

It seems they’ve found a hot spot. 

Robin notices (of course he notices), and lingers, dragging the feather in slow, teasing strokes as she cranes her neck to the side to afford him better access. Before long she’s panting, squirming, letting out a little whimper, and he finally veers away, across her throat, and she turns her head eagerly to grant him access to the other side. This one isn’t quite as sensitive, it turns out, but it still feels good, like her nerve endings have come alight, and when he finishes his exploration of it and heads up her other arm, she finds herself arching into the touch more than away from it.

Until he hits the inside of her elbow, then she jerks and hisses, the sensation intense and unpleasant. Her arm rolls, or tries to, and she grimaces, huffing a few breaths.

“Alright?”

“No,” she winces, twisting a little. “My elbow.”

Robins fingers land there a moment later, warm and calloused, and rubbing vigorously. It eases the relentless tickle, and she breathes a sigh of relief, the tension in her muscles easing. “Thank you, Sir.”

“No more elbows,” he muses, his smile evident in his voice. 

She huffs a little laugh and says, “Apparently not.”

“This is a warm-up,” he murmurs to her. “If it’s uncomfortable, if you need it eased anywhere, let me know.”

“Yes, Sir,” she breathes, not sure why they’re being so quiet, but it feels right. The empty building is near-silent, the fire crackling across the room the only real sound aside from their movements, their voices. The hushed air feels soothing, comforting. Even when that feather finds the sensitive side of her neck again, her arm apparently deemed dangerous territory best abandoned. 

By the time he’s making his way down toward her chest, she’s settled in again, panting lightly and enjoying the slow tickle. He draws the tip of the feather down along the side of her breast and beneath the curve of it; she feels goosebumps flare over her skin, feels her nipple draw tight. 

Regina licks her lips, her toes curling at the sensation, and then he runs the feather up her sternum, toward her collar, and down the outside of her other breast in much the same way. More goosebumps; both nipples hard little knots now. He does it again, again, and eventually Regina notices that his wonky not-quite-figure-eight is getting narrower and narrower with each circuit. Closer and closer to her nipples, she realizes with a thick swallow and a little flicker of anticipation. 

The tickles leave an echo in their wake, a hypersensitive feeling, an _awareness_ of her own skin. Of her nerve endings. Her breath thickens; her nipples start to ache. 

She loses track of how long they stay like this, can only think of the slow drag of the feather, the predictable curves of it over her skin. He’s maybe half an inch away from her so-stiff peaks when Robin makes her gasp, veering straight down her sternum and heading for her navel rather than her right breast again. 

Regina’s fingers clench, a little moan of protest sounding in her throat as the feather circles her bellybutton. 

Robin’s chuckle is low and pleased; that bastard. He even has the audacity to ask her, “Something amiss, my love?”

“You didn’t finish, Sir,” she breathes, surprised by how gaspy her voice is. 

“Sure, I did,” Robin says casually. “I spent far more time on your breasts than I did on your arms or your neck. I think I was quite thorough.”

“But…” It’s not a whine; she’s not whiny. It’s definitely a bit plaintive, though, and if she didn’t feel like half of her nerve endings had done several shots of espresso, she’d probably be more eloquent than what she says to him: “Sir, my nipples.”

“Could cut glass right now,” he says, as though he’s finishing her sentence. 

“I need… Sir, can you – please – will you lick them, or suck, or—”

“No, love, it’s not time for them yet,” he tells her with perhaps the barest hint of regret. “Focus on the feather, my love. Just feel, remember?”

Regina grits her teeth and does as she’s told, biting back the urge to tell him she’s feeling _plenty_ , and that’s the problem. 

The feather traces around her navel again, then veers right, and up, making teasing loop-de-loops toward her ribs. She gasps when he hits them, the swirling tickles acute enough to make her wriggle and twist, her nipples momentarily forgotten as that aching, empty feeling that had been so maddening is replaced by the tip of a feather dragging over her torso and then tickling sharply along the other side of her ribs. 

There are no regular figure-eights here, just random patterns and trails that make Regina writhe, her teeth sinking into her lower lip, a tiny moan breaking free now and again. And then all of a sudden, just as she’s let out a high little “Ah!”, it goes from dancing over her side, to looping up, up. She has a momentary fear that he’s headed for her armpit, but he dips right, heads straight over her breast and teases the feather over her nipple, and she _moans_ , her head tipping back and grinding into the pillow. 

She’s fairly certain she gasps an “Oh God…” – if not, she certainly _thinks_ it awfully hard. He’s barely touching her, it’s just the same tickling sensation, but she feels it _everywhere_ now, everywhere he’s touched her, and it has her hypersensitive. Just the tip of the feather on her nipple – nipples, he trails his way over to the other to tickle that one too – makes pleasure spark and fizzle through her. 

“Is that better?” Robin asks her; Regina just moans.

(That’s not true. She moans, _and_ she lets out another _Oh God_ and a sharp little _Oh!_ , her thighs clenching, trying fruitlessly to close for a moment before relaxing again.)

“I asked you a question,” Robin reminds her a moment later, treating her to another lazy figure-eight that just halos both nipples, not _quite_ touching them this time. 

“Mmm, I’m – mm – sorry, Sir. _Yes,_ it’s better, Sir, so much better.”

He tells her, “Good,” with a smile she can hear, and then he’s zig-zagging his way down her belly, past her navel, teasing the feather over her hips, her upper thighs. When he veers in and tickles along her inner thighs, it makes the muscles there twitch and jump. She’s ticklish there, sensitive, he _knows_ that, and this only confirms it. 

And because he’s an absolute bastard (a wonderful, sexy, how-ever-did-she-get-lucky-enough-to-have-him bastard), he lingers there until she’s so squirmy he’s having a hard time keeping the feather on her skin. 

She’s gripping at the ties wrapped around her wrists, fisting and scratching at them restlessly, when he tells her, “You are so wet, my love. I can see how wet from here – I love you like this, all spread open for me, and flushed, wanting me. Tempting me. Right now, there’s not much I’d like more than to bury my face between those lovely twitching thighs and lick at you until you come on my tongue.”

“God, yes, please, Sir,” she moans, thinking _Thank God_ , because this is torture (wonderful torture, but _torture_ ), and she needs to feel something that isn’t that maddening tickle. And he’s right; she’s wet, aroused, aching for more attention to her clit. If he’s in the mood to be generous after all, she’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Not _much_ ,” he repeats, and her freshly buoyed hopes sink right back down. “But I do find that watching you squirm right now is really awfully fun. So… you’ll have to wait.”

Regina lets out a sound of protest, all that tension in her body going limp for just a second. 

Robin just chuckles and lets the feather trail down her shin and back up, then up, and up, up, until it reaches the hinge of her hip and thigh. She’s spread open wide enough that he has access to whatever he might like, and what he likes is apparently putting her through more of this pleasant hell, because that feather starts to wander over her outer lips, tickling and tickling, up one side, down the other, back, again. 

“Robin,” she whines without thinking, too distracted by all this _sensation_ , and then all of a sudden it stops. 

“You just used my name.”

Regina feels herself clench with the realization – there’s a fairly routine punishment for that little slip now, and she’s so keyed up that she’ll welcome it. At least it’s something stronger than the grazing touches she’s had up until now.

“Oh-ho,” Robin chuckles, telling her, “I saw that little clench. I’m starting to think this isn’t much of a punishment anymore if you’re so looking forward to it, _young lady_.”

Oh, that’s just cheating; Regina moans softly at the moniker, just as he probably knew she would. And then she fibs a bit, telling him, “It is, Sir. It’s a deterrent, I swear.”

Robin says, “Mm,” like he very much doubts that, but she still feels the warmth of his palm cup her sex a moment later. “You haven’t bothered to apologize,” he points out ( _Shit,_ she thinks), “so you’ll get two.”

Regina nods, and braces herself, but even the solidness of his palm curled against her feels foreign after so long with nothing but a feather’s edge on her skin. She struggles to prepare herself for the weight of a smack, and sure enough, when his fingers whack down against her the first time, it ricochets through her like an unexpected electric shock. 

She lets out a little shout, and then a breathless, “I’m sorry, Sir!” 

He never hits her very _hard—_ after all, it’s not her ass he’s punishing. That he’ll do with gusto, whack after whack until she’s red and throbbing. But not her sex, he goes easy on her there. Sharp enough to sting a bit, but never enough to linger, or redden, or bruise. 

Still, she hisses a little as he lands the second spank, her second apology leaving through gritted teeth. 

Robin murmurs a quiet, “Good girl,” the backs of his fingers grazing soothingly over her skin. And then the warmth of his touch falls away, and she tries to center herself again. “Do you want more of this or something new?”

Oh, thank God. Regina jumps at the chance to ask for, “Something new, Sir. Please.”

Her hypersensitivity has her almost itchy at this point.

Robin gives her knee a light squeeze and says, “Alright, love,” and then, “Do you need anything first?”

Regina takes a moment to take stock of herself. She’s been holding herself tense, wriggling in her bonds, gasping and panting. There’s a little bit of a kink in her shoulder, and she’s parched. So she requests, “Water. And can I roll my arms out for a second?”

Robin’s, “Of course, love,” is closely followed by the sound of his footsteps drawing nearer, the feel of his fingers plucking at the knots around her wrist. She keeps still, and waits, smirks a little when he mutters, “You pulled this knot awfully tight.”

“Someone had me very squirmy,” she points out, her smirk warming into a proper smile at his answering chuckle. 

“I did, and it was delightful.” 

That knot finally gives, and Regina lets her arm move down against her side while he works on the other. Once that one is released, too, she feels his fingertips against her face, against her blindfold, and she rushes to plead, “Wait! Leave it, please. I don’t need to see to drink.”

She can hear the smile in his, “As you wish,” and then there’s a warm press of lips to her brow, a slight tickle of his beard as he urges her, “Sit up, love.”

She feels him back away before she moves to obey, rolling her shoulders and then elbowing herself up, scooching down ever so slightly to give her ankles some slack and then pushing up until she’s sitting properly. She rolls her shoulders again, tugs each arm across her front in a little stretch, and then rubs out a couple of spots that are still giving her phantom tickles. 

The coolness of glass against her bicep startles her slightly, but then she’s reaching for the lowball he’s brought her and bringing it to her lips. She gulps greedily at it – he’s good about breaking for water or a stretch, but usually only when there’s a shift in the action or she asks for it. And frankly, she’s usually too distracted by whatever blissful torture he’s having her endure to notice something as mundane as _thirst_.

So she makes a point to hydrate properly, draining the glass in several deep gulps as Robin runs a soothing hand up and down her back, her arm. As she lowers the cup with a sated gasp, he presses a kiss to her shoulder and asks, “Good birthday?”

Regina grins, and turns toward his voice, purring, “Excellent birthday,” before stealing a kiss. He lets her – they’re clearly on a pause, after all – and for a moment, there are no games, no teasing, no roles. Just the two of them sharing a languid, steamy kiss, their tongues teasing, his teeth catching her lower lip lightly and giving it a soft bite as they break apart. 

“Did you like the feather?” he asks her warmly; the heat of his palm cups her breast, his thumb rubs lazily over a still-tight nipple.

“Mm, yes,” she hums. “But I was ready for a change. Too tickly.”

“Well, I promise you, what’s next won’t tickle.”

“I don’t know whether to be scared or excited.”

“Excited. Lie back, love.” Robin helps her shift back down, his hand cupped behind her skull as she lowers herself.

Regina lets herself relax, breathes slowly as Robin re-ties her wrists, adjusts her ankles slightly, and then moves away. She’s not sure what to expect, thinks of asking, but she likes the element of surprise. 

So she’s entirely unprepared for the shock of cold against her nipple a moment later, gasping sharply as Robin circles an ice cube over the sensitive peak. 

“Does it tickle?” he asks smugly; Regina still hasn’t bothered to close her mouth, her jaw dropped, her breath hitching, her body trying to adjust to the sudden stimulation. 

But she knows he’ll expect an answer, so she forces her tongue to work again, forces herself to relax again, and says, “N-no, Sir. It does not.”

Robin chuckles quietly, and then that ice is running up toward her collar, along her neck, tucking into where the skin is still warm and making her shiver in her bonds. Her head turns automatically to allow him better access, the contrast of cold and body heat surprisingly sensual; a melty droplet of water rolls down her skin toward the pillow beneath her head and she moans quietly at the tickling trail of it.

And then he murmurs, “Other side, love,” and she turns her head to expose the more sensitive side of her neck. When he runs the ice there, her breath goes shaky, her fingers clenching, and she feels the freezing zig-zag pattern he’s making all the way down in her clit.

“Look at all these lovely goosebumps,” Robin nearly whispers; her tongue is too busy wetting her lips to answer. 

When he has her eyes practically rolling back in bliss, her neck damp, he makes his way back down, and the way the wet skin cools in the air of the room just makes the goosebumps prickle even further.

He spirals over one breast, closer and closer, tightening his circumference until her nails are leaving little half-moon marks in her palms, her breath held in anticipation. She should know he’s going to do it, she should be expecting it, but when he swoops the ice cube across to her other breast without ever grazing it over her nipple, she lets out another groan of dismayed betrayal. 

“Patience,” he urges, far too amused – when she’d said she wanted him to splay her out and crop her, she hadn’t bargained for _this_ kind of smug torture (she doesn’t mind, not really, it’s amazing; already one of their best sessions and he hasn’t even touched her clit yet). 

He gives her the same spiraling tease in toward her nipple, but Regina is smarter this time; she doesn’t dare to hope he’ll actually reward her with the stimulation she’s craving. Pushing aside the anticipation, she focuses on the feel of it, the chill, the way water drips and rolls as the ice melts against her heated skin. 

Just like the feather, he veers away before her nipple and draws a line straight down the center of her, the ice cube coming to rest in the dip of her navel. It’s sensitive in a way she wasn’t expecting, making her belly jump, a soft “Ha!” popping from her lips.

And then he just leaves it there.

She hears a little clink to her right, and then suddenly there’s another ice cube, colder, fresh, trailing along her hip. She shakes slightly, surprised and aroused, and then Robin is telling her, “You’ll keep that one in your bellybutton while I do this.”

It’s an order, not a request, and Regina swallows thickly and forces her body to stay steady and still. 

“Yes, Sir.”

It’s nearly melted, that first ice cube, but it’s still chilly, a little focal point of growing cold. She tries to keep her mind on it, on breathing as steadily as she can while the fresh ice cube rolls up over her ribs. 

She can’t arch, or twist, can’t dislodge that little melting piece from her belly, can’t do anything but moan and pant (and that not very deeply) as Robin draws frigid, melting curlicues over her torso. He focuses on where she’s most sensitive – the sides of her ribs, the edge of her hip, the hinge where her thigh meets her body.

When he veers south along there, she fists the ties in her hand, grips hard, tells herself not to expect anything other than more teasing. He won’t touch her clit, she knows he won’t, but it’s _aching_ now. She can feel the needy thrum of blood in her veins, can feel the heat and heaviness of arousal flushing her, and she just wants some sort of _friction_. Some little taste of relief.

Predictably, Robin skips her sex entirely, veering up the same hinge on the other side instead. 

Regina blows her frustration out in a slow breath, and keeps her hold on the silk under her fingers.

And then he moves to her thighs.

Barely even bothers with her quads – and why should he, when he can make her come undone by tracing patterns over her inner thighs. She moans desperately, and arches; chilly water spills over from her navel, that nearly-spent sliver of an ice cube dislodging from its place and rolling down toward her sex.

It never makes it.

Robin stills; the ice disappears from her skin. She hears a little clatter of the newer cube hitting something (a lowball? A small bowl? She’s not sure) nearby and then he tells her, “I do believe I gave you a task, love.”

Fuck. (Oh, God, yes.)

“Yes, Sir.”

“You’ve failed.”

“Yes, Sir.”

She can hear him moving, his voice closer, and then he tells her, “I was going to use the little rubber-tipped ones you like later, but… since you’re having such trouble with obedience at the moment…”

Her brain catches up just a second before he grips one of her nipples, giving it a firm roll to make sure it’s good and pert before she feels the tight pressure of a clover clamp squeeze around it.

“Oh!” she shouts, her body tensing, pleasure and pressure warring for dominance, her starved nerve endings struggling to sort out relief from pleasant agony. 

“You alright?” Robin asks her, rolling her other nipple.

Regina nods, sweat blooming over her skin, as she says, “Yes, Sir. It’s just intense. I’ve been waiting so long.”

“Mm, you did say you wanted your nipples played with,” he tells her as she feels the pressure of the other clamp close against her. 

“Yes, Sir,” she gasps, and oh God, she did, she _did_ say that, but she was expecting his mouth, his fingers, an ice cube, some kind of relief from the aching tension, not _this_. She’s been dying for something firmer than the tickling, melting torture she’s endured so far, but the tight pinch of the clamp is such a contrast. It’s too much and just right all at once. 

There’s a chain connecting the two clamps – loose enough she hadn’t been aware of it until the moment Robin gives it a tug. The clamps pinch tighter and she yelps. Another tug (she manages to hold back the yelp this time), and she hears him walking away.

Her body is in overdrive all of a sudden – too much stimulation, too long spent focusing on the way she _feels_ and feeling so _much_. Her breath hitches, quickens, but the panting just makes her even _more_ aware of the pressure in her breasts. She needs to focus, needs to—

Robin’s hand squeezes warm around her ankle and holds there, anchoring her, and she tries to guide her attention there even as he urges her, “Breathe, love. Focus. You’re alright; I’ve got you.”

Regina nods, and sucks in a breath, forces it out slowly. (“That’s it,” Robin urges, “Find your center…”) She does it again, once more, keeps her mind on his fingers, still pressing tightly to her skin. 

It takes a moment, but she’s able to relax, to mellow herself, to find that steady, calm place inside herself that she goes to when they do this. The ache in her nipples becomes less overwhelming, more rewarding. Intense, but _good_ , and she shifts her focus there as Robin’s grip loosens, his fingertips skimming up her calf, her thigh. 

“Good girl,” he praises, and Regina licks her lips. 

She hears the clink of the ice cube, jumps slightly when it hits her thigh again. He picks up where he left off, chilling her inner thighs loop by teasing loop, and soon Regina’s hips are rocking, the pleasure-pain in her nipples only making her wetter. 

She doesn’t know how long he’s planning on teasing her like this, but if she doesn’t have an orgasm soon, she might die. (She won’t, she’s used to holding back, but God, there’s a point where she’d do a whole litany of things – wonderful, filthy, could-never-in-a-million-years-have-imagined-herself-in-this-position-before-she-met-him things – just to come, and with the clamps on her nipples she’s fast approaching it.)

And then she feels the ice cube touch her clit and she nearly loses her damn mind.

She shouts, her hips twitching – she’s not sure whether she should be arching into the touch (finally, _finally_ something is touching her clit again) or away from it (it’s _cold_ , and shocking, and she’s already so close and doesn’t have permission). 

“Settle down,” Robin orders casually, as if it’s so easy, but Regina grips her bonds firmly and does her best. She breathes out slowly, forces her body to relax into the glass tabletop as best she can, as Robin trails that ice cube teasingly up and down from her clit, over her lips, and back up. 

When she’s managed to go loose again, he brings it back to her clit and focuses relentlessly, drawing little circles over the tip of it, running up and down along the hood, and Regina’s so close, so needy. She feels herself clench, feels her thighs twitch. 

“In case you’ve forgotten, you’re still not allowed to come,” he tells her, and Regina moans deeply and answers him, _Yes, Sir_. “If you can’t hold back any longer, use your safeword, and I’ll stop.”

She gives him another acknowledgement, and then lets herself enjoy the chilly friction he’s finally allowing her. The ice slides and rolls over her, and the chilly melting drops that drip down her sex make her gasp even more than they had on her breasts, her ribs. 

It doesn’t take long before she’s quaking, twitching, each pass of the little cube over her sensitive nub making her gasp and moan. Her thick breaths make her acutely aware of the clamps at her nipples, and she _needs_ her orgasm now. Needs it. She’s _this close_ to starting to beg for it, but he hadn’t given her begging as an option, had he?

This wasn’t presented as a “beg me for permission and I’ll let you,” sort of torment, he’s just edging her. No promise of relief in sight.

So she won’t beg; she’s _better_ than that.

She won’t beg, she’ll endure. She’ll moan and squirm and _writhe_ right up to that edge like a _good girl_. 

When her toes are curling, her fingers clenching, her nipples aching, and her clit hypersensitive, when she’s maybe fifteen seconds from finally admitting defeat and gasping her safe word, Robin runs the ice cube suddenly down her sex and lets it sink inside her.

Regina cries out, her hips bucking; she feels her muscles clench tight, the icy sensation foreign but _arousing._ Oh, _fuck_.

“Don’t come,” he warns her, and Regina shakes her head, presses her lips hard together. 

She doesn’t have to worry about that – this is shocking and pleasant, but it’s not what she needs to come. She squirms even as she relaxes, and as soon as her muscles release their tension, she feels Robin’s fingers dip into her, two of them sinking in along with the ice cube, and then they’re gone – fingers, ice and all. 

Regina lets out a breath of relief, licks her lips, and then a moment later she feels the chill of ice on them. Robin’s voice is close, and thick, as he murmurs, “You are so wet right now, my love. I can’t wait to feel you. Think I might be jealous of the ice cube.”

Regina grins and chuckles, flicking her tongue out to lick at the chilly cube. It’s small now, wet and melty; she catches a hint of her own taste on it and moans quietly. Robin murmurs something that sounds like _Gorgeous_ , and then she’s stealing his little torture device, sucking the ice between her lips and nipping it from him with her teeth. 

He laughs softly, right up until she tucks it between her molars and bites, what’s left of the cube crunching easily between her teeth.

Then he says, “Hey, now. I don’t believe I gave you permission for that.”

Regina chuckles, her mouth still closed as she chews the ice. When she’s safely melted and swallowed what’s left of it, she tells him, “I got thirsty, Sir.”

“Then you ask for a drink,” he tells her, but she can hear that he’s smiling. 

It doesn’t keep him from tugging that chain between her nipple clamps though, and Regina lets out a short “Ah!” as they pinch tighter again, again, again. He does it four times, five, until she’s hissing and grimacing. 

When she lets out an _Ouch!_ , he finally urges her, “Apologize.”

Right. Duh.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” she gasps. “I was a brat.”

“Mm,” he hums. “And what happens when you’re bratty?”

Regina feels heat flush under her skin, even beneath the tension and ache she can’t quell. She knows the answer to that: “I get a spanking, Sir.”

“Mmhmm,” he confirms, adding, “Or the crop. But that’s a problem, see, because you were already to get the crop today. As a reward. So I don’t think I can punish you with a spanking when you so badly want one already.”

Regina bites her lip, offering, “You could swat me again, Sir. The way you do when I say your name.”

“No, I think you like that too much.”

He’s right; she’d _love_ a good spanking right now, no matter where he administers it. It wouldn’t come close to being a punishment, and they both know it.

“But…” he tells her. “The last thing I meant to use on you before you get your crop, it can prickle or it can hurt. I was going to use it gently, so it prickled. But perhaps… sixty seconds, hard?”

Regina gulps, regretting her blindfold for the first time. She trusts him; it’s not anything that she can’t handle. Robin knows her limits, and he’d never _hurt_ her, not really.

But if it’s pain, she likes to know what’s coming, so she asks him, “What is it?”

“A pinwheel,” he tells her, and that’s… that’s new. They’ve never used that before. 

Regina frowns a little, and asks, “Can I see it, please?”

Robin doesn’t hesitate, easing her blindfold up gently. Regina blinks rapidly, adjusting to the light as he turns and grabs something off one of the chairs, holding it up for her. It’s not very big, just a little metal handle with menacing looking spikes on a wheel at the end of it. It’ll poke, she thinks, but nothing she can’t endure.

Still, she asks, “Can I feel it, Sir?”

“Arm?” he asks, and she nods. He reaches toward her arm and rolls it up from her elbow toward her wrist, the sensation prickly and uncomfortable – but not painful. He tells her, “Gentle,” and then he rolls back down slowly, and she feels the teeth sink in, a sort of sharp carving feeling that makes her let out a pained _Ooh!_ as he tells her, “Hard. It’s not drawing blood.”

Well. It looks like they’ve found a new punishment.

Regina nods, says, “Sixty seconds is fine. Can I have the clamps off first, though?”

Robin smiles warmly at her, dipping down to press a kiss to her lips and murmuring against them, “Of course, love.”

Releasing the clamps is never a picnic, and Regina hisses predictably as he eases one away and the blood comes rushing back to her nipple. It _hurts_ , it always does, but she feels Robin’s lips pressing a line of kisses down her sternum almost immediately, feather-light and tender. It’s enough to distract her for a moment until the pain eases off. When she blows out a breath, she feels him reach for the other clamp and ease that one away too. Another hiss, his tongue laves up her sternum, and then he’s dotting kisses toward the first breast and covering her nipple with his mouth, swirling his tongue over it gently.

She’s still oversensitive, but it works to his advantage now; each little brush of his tongue against her makes her twitch and gasp. After a minute, he eases off and moves to do the same to her other nipple. 

He does this, most of the time, goes all tender after he uses the clamps on her, walks her down from the pain with soft kisses, soft touches, soft words. If she’s honest, it’s one of the things she loves about using them. This little moment of tenderness between them as he releases her. 

When he kisses his way up her throat, over her chin, covers her mouth with his and kisses her deeply, she wishes she had her hands free. She wants to clutch at him, run her fingers through the softness of his hair, pull him closer to her. As it is, she has to settle for tipping her chin up against his, for slipping him some extra tongue and moaning softly in the back of her throat. 

She’s almost forgotten there’s a punishment coming (can barely remember what it’s even for, at this point) until he draws back enough to break the kiss and then drops another soft smooch on her lips.

“Sixty seconds,” he tells her. “Count them down for me.”

Right.

Punishment. Pain. 

One minute. She can handle one minute.

Regina nods, closing her eyes as he tugs her blindfold back down and presses one last kiss to her lips. 

She feels the prickle of the pinwheel press to the top of her thigh, and scowls, says, “Sir—” and then waits for permission to continue. He holds where he is, and grants it, so she tells him, “Not my thighs, please. I want the crop there, and I don’t know how it’ll feel after the pinwheel.”

“Alright,” he agrees easily, and Regina shivers as the wheel prickles lightly up to her hipbone instead. “I’ll start when you do.”

Regina nods, licks her lips, takes a deep breath, and then says, “Sixty…” She feels the press of the teeth into her hip, grimacing slightly at the pain as he rolls it over her hipbone for, “Fifty-nine…” The sensation is new and not at all pleasant, and when he turns the wheel suddenly up her side, she has to force her brain to remember to count rather than just feel. 

“Fifty-eight… F—” she gasps at a particularly sensitive spot, then stammers “—F-Fifty six…”

And then it stills, the pressure falling away as Robin says, “Stop. Count up from one.”

Regina brow knits, her lips pulling into a scowl. “What?”

“You missed fifty-seven; you’re distracted,” he tells her softly, his hand settling on her hip for a moment, giving it a little squeeze. “Count up, it’s easier. You won’t have to think about it.”

“Oh.” He’s right; up is always easier, more automatic. Regina tells him, “Thank you, Sir,” and feels the prick of the teeth into her skin as Robin presses down again. 

It’s easier this time, as she counts, “One… two… three…” and Robin rolls the pinwheel up her ribs (she grimaces, she’s sensitive there), then down in a diagonal across her belly. By the time she gets to “Eleven… twelve… thirteen…” he’s criss-crossed in the other direction. 

Regina doesn’t _like_ this; she doesn’t _hate_ it, she’d never safeword it, but it’s definitely a punishment, and not one she thinks she’ll be requesting for herself. He works up her belly in that same line he’d tickled and iced, and Regina squirms. 

“Nineteen… twenty…” 

Over her breasts, and she screws her face into a grimace, grips her bonds for “twenty-two… twenty-three…” and prays he won’t go for her nipples. Not right now when they’re still fresh from the clamps and hypersensitive. 

He seems to have the good sense not to, thank God. He skirts close, but never rolls over them. 

By the time she gets to thirty, she’s sweating and panting, and when she hears Robin drop the little bastard onto the table next to her, she lets out a breath of relief. A second later she jumps at the sudden sensation of ice against her skin again, tracing the path he’d made with the pinwheel in reverse. It eases the discomfort immediately, and Regina moans appreciatively, and murmurs, “Thank you, Sir.”

“How are you doing?” he asks, and she tells him that she’s okay. And she is, this is fine. She can endure it, it’s just not _fun_. And he must know that, because he urges her again, “Are you sure? Tell me the truth. Always the truth when we’re like this, right?”

Regina nods, and admits, “I don’t like this, Sir. I don’t even remember what the punishment was for anymore. But I _am_ fine, I’m okay to finish.”

“I thought not,” he mutters softly, almost to himself and sounding none too pleased (it’s not at her, she doesn’t think – he just hates when things don’t work out). That ice cube falls away, clatters into its glass again, as he reminds her, “You chewed the ice.”

Right. That was her transgression.

A moment later she feels the pinwheel against her skin again, the gentle cold of the metal resting against her, but it feels different somehow. 

And then Robin asks, “How does this feel?” and she feels it drag down her belly, a cluster of sharp scrapes that make her breath catch, the skin warm and stinging in his wake. 

Now _that_ , that she can find the pleasure in.

“That’s good, Sir,” she tells him, licking her lips as the little wheel presses just below her breast again, right next to where it had begun last time. 

“How good?” he asks her, dragging it down again, slowly. “Pleasure or punishment?”

“Mm, pleasure, Sir,” she admits, because quite frankly he’s not giving her a very hard hand. She urges, “Do it harder,” and so Robin does, starting again, right next to where he’d started, but this time he puts some more pressure into it, and the scratches sting more – as she’d hoped they would. She hisses and tells him, “Punishment.”

Robin chuckles softly, scraping all the way down to her navel. “But fun punishment?”

Regina’s breathless when she admits, “Mmhmm,” her breath hitching as he starts again beneath her breast and drags the teeth down, down until she moans. The places he’s left behind are still hot, she can still _feel_ them, like the lingering sting of a crop or a well-placed palm. 

Regina’s toes curl. 

Robin works his way across her belly, another line of scratches, one more, until he’s reached her other side, then she hears the wheel fall into the glass along with the ice. 

“That’ll do, I think – and your belly’s so lovely and red now. So not a complete waste of a purchase then,” Robin says smugly, no doubt taking in the view of her panting lightly with pained arousal. 

“Definitely not, Sir,” Regina tells him. He asks if she needs more ice, but she turns him down, telling him, “Let it burn; I like it.”

“As you wish, love.” She feels his fingertips trail across her belly, feather-light, and inhales at the sensation. “You should see yourself.”

He doesn’t give her time to agree or protest, just tugs her blindfold up again until Regina can look down at her belly. The pinwheel scratches have left little red welts in their wake, her belly striped all up and down in a way that makes her moan softly and drop her head back to the pillow to look at him. 

“That’s… very hot,” she admits, and Robin grins at her. 

“I think so, too.” He leans down, pops a kiss into her lips. “And I think you’ve been properly chastened. In fact, I think you’re ready for the riding crop…”

Heat flashes through her, an eager smile lighting her face before he says, “...nearly.”

Regina pouts, and Robin kisses it, then tells her, “I’m worried we killed your arousal a bit with the pinwheel; I want to edge you first,” and, well, he may have a point there…

So she nods, stretching as best she can in her bonds, and then asking, “Can I sit, Sir?” She feels tight, kinked in places she’d like to pop and stretch. In fact, “Can I _stand_?”

Permission for breaks comes so much easier than permission for orgasms, she thinks, as he agrees immediately and reaches for her ties. She could release them herself, but she likes pretending that they’re doing their job, that she’s actually bound here and subject to his whim, that she doesn’t have the magic that will release her. 

“Have a stretch; I’ll get us both a drink,” he tells her, moving to facilitate both of them rehydrating as soon as she’s released and sitting. 

Regina slips off the table and stands on knees that are a little wobbly. She stretches her arms up over her head, popping her shoulder, her spine, rolling out her neck. Then she brings her own fingers to trace those scrapes on her belly while she waits for him. They’re just a little raised, warm to the touch. They’ll fade, she knows. They’ll probably be gone by the time they leave here today, but a little part of her hopes they won’t be. She likes wearing his marks for a day or two, as long as they’re in places where she can easily hide them.

She’s still touching them gently when Robin returns, water in hand for each of them, and an observant smirk on his face. 

“Happy with your scratches, love?” he asks, leaning in to give her a quick kiss before he hands over her water and takes a deep glug of his own.

“Very,” she nods, before taking a sip. She swallows quickly, and then says, “I’m happy with a lot of things today.”

Robin grins into his glass, then sets it aside once he’s drained it. All it takes is a little backward nod from him to have her scooting back up onto the table’s edge, and then Robin is reaching for her knees and parting her thighs wide enough that he can step into the space between them. 

“I’m glad,” he tells her, his fingertips drawing lazy patterns over her skin while they talk. “These long hours of play are hard to come by; I wanted to make today special for you.”

Affection swells in her chest. He’s so sweet to her sometimes, and so gorgeous just now, his gaze somewhere below her navel, his lips a little pouty. Regina takes one last gulp of water and sets her glass near his in order to free her hands so she can drape them around his neck. 

“You have,” she assures him, drawing him closer so she can kiss him again. His hands stay on her thighs, touching lightly and letting her anchor their mouths together. There’s no rush – they have all day, after all – so the kiss spins out, and heats slowly, the intimacy of it making Regina’s fingers curl in his hair.

There’s something about this aspect of their relationship that is incredibly tender, for all its violence and pain and extremes. She finds him at the edge of herself, feels closer than ever to him when she’s on teetering on the precipice of bearable sensations (both good and bad) and he’s the hand that’s guided her there. And something about that trust and intimacy always makes her want him even _closer._

So she savors the kisses – when he’s in a giving mood.

Sometimes when they do this, they hardly kiss at all. He doms her hard, denies her requests for his lips against hers just as easily as he denies her orgasms. He makes her work for a kiss, makes her ache for it, and endure for it. Waits until she’s sweaty and breathless and begging, and then finally, finally, lets her get a taste of that mouth she’s so desperate for.

It does things to her, the waiting. Makes the wanting sweeter, makes the satisfaction of finally getting what she wants that much better. 

And Robin knows it.

So what he suggests next shouldn’t really surprise her, and yet she’s entirely unprepared for it.

He waits until they’ve wound down to soft, feathery kisses brushed over lips and jaws and necks and collarbones. And then, as his lips graze the side of her neck and chase a shiver through her, he asks if she’s ready for that edge he’d promised her. She nods, heat skittering below her skin – he’s loving and tactile today, but he’s also exploring her limits, so she has no doubt he’ll work her so close to an orgasm she can almost taste it before he finally stops and gives her that crop she’s been fantasizing about for ages. 

But he doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything more than trail more of those teasing touches over her thighs. Instead, he muses, “You’re awfully fond of denial, aren’t you, my love? You like when I make you wait… and wait… and wait…” 

Regina lets out a little moan and nods her head – any attempts to claim otherwise would be laughable, considering how much orgasm control plays into nearly every time they do this.

“I was thinking…” he begins again, and she can tell he really has been. Whatever he’s trying to say, he’s thought it over, has been rehearsing his words. “I’ve denied you before, for a whole session, or a day, and that one week. But what if… we tried for something a bit… longer?”

Regina swallows thickly. Orgasm denial is a double-edged sword: it gets her riled and achy for him, it leads to incredible sex, incredible orgasms. But it’s also just fucking torture. 

“How long are you thinking?”

He shrugs nonchalantly, but his answer is very precise: “Twenty-eight days.”

Regina’s brows shoot up: “Twenty-eight?” she questions; her brain catching the significance easily, even as riled up as she’s been. “You want me to go the entire month of February without an orgasm? Robin, it’s my _birthday_.”

“Not today,” he assures. “We’d start tomorrow – so twenty-seven days, I suppose. We’ll have our fun today, and I will make you come, hard, and repeatedly. And then for the month of February, only edges. Every day. Just think how badly you’ll want to come by March first, think how good that orgasm will feel, my love.”

She clenches at the thought, her breath catching. She’d nearly blacked out when he’d finally let her come after that week without, the pleasure had been so dizzying, so staggering. It had been easily one of the most satisfying orgasms of her life – and that was just from a week of nothing but making out heatedly every night, fruitless grinding that ended before it came to fruition every time. She hadn’t even been able to get naked with him – she’d stayed in a camisole and her panties every time, and it had been maddening. When he’d finally slid his fingers into her underwear the day she was allowed to come, she’d cried out just at the feel of skin on skin. (He hadn’t even given her an orgasm then – it had been in the morning, while she was brushing her teeth in the bathroom. He’d walked up behind her, slid a hand down beneath that day’s soft cotton briefs to caress her gently, murmuring that tonight she’d get to come; she had _melted_ , had felt herself go wet immediately, and hadn’t been able to keep her mind on anything else for the rest of the damn day.)

Quite frankly, she’d expected him to subject her to this again sometime – she just hadn’t expected to be offered such a long dry spell.

“Do you really want to go the whole month without this…” she asks him teasingly, pressing her naked skin against him, reaching for his hands and sliding one down between her thighs. “Last time, you said not getting to touch me properly was… what was the word you used… ‘bloody torture’?”

Robin just smirks at her. “Who said I wouldn’t be touching?” 

He cups her ass with one hand, tugs her a little closer to the end of the table, her thighs parting wider to accommodate him. That hand she’d urged down between her legs shifts a little, until he can rub her clit lightly; Regina clamps her lower lip between her teeth and sighs softly, lashes fluttering at the pleasure.

“Last time, we—”

“This isn’t last time,” he interrupts gently. “This time, I want to make it a little more… challenging. I’ll touch, _you’ll_ touch. I’ll eat you out, and I’ll fuck you. We’ll even play – crops and clamps and the whole nine.” Regina inhales sharply, her hips twitching against his touch, still teasingly slow and gentle against her. “Bring you right to the edge, over and over. In all sorts of different ways.”

She’s going to die. If she agrees to this, it might actually kill her. A whole month of being teased, really truly teased, and denied? She doesn’t think she can do it (a part of her really, really wants to prove that she can). 

Still, she finds herself asking, “What would the rules be, if I agreed?”

“Mm.” He makes this face like he’s mulling it over, which is ridiculous, because he’s clearly already thought all of this out. His fingers press a little harder against her clit, firmer circles, but still slow, and her breath catches. “You’ll be allowed as many edges as the day of the month. Two tomorrow, three on the third, and so on, and so on… If you come without permission, you lose March, too.”

She can’t help the hysterical little laugh that bubbles out of her. “There is no way I’m going _two_ months without an orgasm – certainly not if I’m going to be edging every day.”

“Then you’d better be good,” he tells her with a shrug, and something about the certain, casual dominance of it makes her moan low in the back of her throat. “If you make it, you’ll be allowed as many orgasms for the day of the month for all of March. One for the first, two for the second, three for the third, and so on...”

Regina lets out another high, doubtful laugh. “So, what, you think I’m going to come thirty-one times on March 31st? I’m not sure if that sounds like reward or torture.”

Robin smirks, and shrugs, and tells her, “Maybe we’ll halve it around mid-month. We’ve time to work that out. Twenty-eight whole days, in fact.”

She swallows thickly and asks, “What about the edges? Are we halving those too?”

“No,” Robin answers easily. “Fourteen on the 14th, twenty on the 20th, twenty-eight on the 28th.”

“That’s insane. When would I find the time to _almost_ come twenty times in a day?”

“Oh, there’s plenty of time,” he shrugs. “In the morning before you get out of bed, in the shower, at night before we fall asleep. At your desk with your hand up your dress on your lunch break. In the restroom at Granny’s. Or Emma’s.” His brows quirk mischievously as her breath catches, heat pooling even more in her belly at the idea of having to sneak off into Emma’s guest bath to rub her clit. “I’m sure you can make time. And by then, I imagine it won’t take much to get you close.”

That shouldn’t be hot. 

It shouldn’t be, but it really really is.

God. She’s actually going to agree to this, isn’t she? 

His finger dips down between her lips, runs back up to her clit, and he smirks. “You’re so wet, my love. I’d ask if I should take that as answer enough, but I’m going to insist you tell me plainly what you want this time. It’s a big undertaking.”

Regina nods, biting her lip and pushing her hips against his touch again. “I don’t know if I can last a whole month – I was so turned on by the end of that one week. I was wet and achy from Wednesday on.”

Robin just shrugs, and says, “I think you can; you’ve more resolve than anyone I know. And there’s only one way to find out, love.”

And oh, that’s not fair.

It’s not, not at all – because it’s true. 

The only way to find out if she _can_ is to _try_. And God, it sounds like hell, but… he’s right, she’s wet just thinking about it, and her breath is a little shallow, and she thinks of that brain-melting orgasm that came from _one_ week without, and can’t help but wonder how much better it would be after _four_. And then being allowed to come, every day, multiple times a day, for a whole month? _That_ certainly sounds worth trying for.

Regina swallows thickly, and nods again, nervous excitement bubbling up in her as she agrees, “Let’s do it. I want to try.”

It’s Robin’s turn to let out a moan, one of his hands rising to cup the back of her head as he ducks down to give her a heated kiss. It’s passionate, and forceful, he surges forward enough that she has to drop a hand back to the table behind her to hold herself up, and by the time it breaks, they’re both breathless and clutching at each other. 

“On your knees, love,” he pants. “Time to practice. One good edge, and then the crop, and then your last orgasms for February.”

She lets out an eager little snicker, suddenly feeling a little punch-drunk and giddy as she scoots back onto the table and shifts onto her knees. What on earth has she just agreed to? She’s utterly lost her marbles.

“All fours or just knees, Sir?” she asks, settling onto her haunches when he tells her just knees.

“Back straight,” he urges, and she adjusts her spine, rolls her shoulders, dutifully spreads her thighs far enough apart that he has easy access to her. Robin wastes no time, bringing his fingers back to her clit and giving it a firm, slow rub, all the way down, slipping two fingers easily into her. She’s been waiting so long today, she’s soaked and sensitive, inhaling deeply at the pleasure of just those two fingers sliding in and then out. He’s not even searching out her g-spot, just testing her, just feeling her out, thrusting lazily once, twice. But even that feels amazing now.

It occurs to her that he’s been denying her all damn day. Drawing it out longer and longer, and he had to know he was going to ask her this. For this month of no orgasms. _Time to practice_ , he’d said, and she turns her head, narrows her eyes a little and tells him lightly, “You bastard. You planned this. Getting me all hot and bothered and then selling me on the merits of being all hot and bothered for even longer.”

“You bastard, _Sir_ ,” he corrects cheekily, fingers slipping out of her and giving her sex a light swat. It doesn’t hurt even a little bit, he’s just teasing, smirking at her as he admits, “And there might have been some forethought into the proposal.”

His fingertips find her clit again and start steady, rhythmic circles. Not too hard, but certainly not gentle, and after being teased all afternoon… She moans, her eyes dropping shut as she enjoys the sensation. She tries not to think of it as a relief, because she knows it won’t be – but God, she’s been waiting so long to be properly touched.

Robin’s voice is quiet but firm when he tells her, “I can’t wait to keep you like this all month long.” Her belly twists, hot arousal and a little adrenaline punch of nerves mixing together. She shouldn’t have agreed to this; it’s going to kill her. “Wet, and needy, and aching for more. Thinking of me all day long.”

He switches his technique from circles to a tight, quick up-and-down and Regina’s jaw drops, her thighs twitching. God, she wants to come. Really, really wants to come.

Robin is still talking, telling her, “We’ll find ways to make it interesting”—she laughs shakily at that; as if it would be boring?—“Days only I can give you edges, or maybe you’ll only be able to have my mouth, or just my cock.”

She moans again at that, deeply, her hips jerking into his touch. It’s not the denial that has her arousal spiking, not really, it’s just the thought of having him inside her. Fuck. She’s done playing around today, she wants him. Now. 

But she still has the crop to endure, and she’s been so looking forward to that…

So alright. Fine. She’ll enjoy a little more torture before she has him inside her, but that doesn’t mean they have to draw _this_ part out. 

He’s murmuring to her as he touches her, she can hear the smirk in his voice as he teases, “Oh, you like the sound of that one? Maybe we ought to do a few days without it, then. Just to balance it out.”

“Who needs balance, Sir?” she teases back, her voice breathy and trembling, breaking off into another low moan as he suddenly switches tactic and veers lower, two fingers sinking into her again. They crook expertly and suddenly he’s hitting her g-spot, hard and quick and oh god fucking _perfect_. Regina stiffens and gasps, misses entirely the way he tells her _You do, my love_ , because she is quite frankly too caught up in the intense sensation. 

Fuck, God, this… It feels so… Mm, she’s needed this all damn afternoon, God, she’s close, so close— 

“Don’t come,” he reminds her. “If you come before your safe word, February starts right now.”

Regina lets out a little wail of protest and fists her fingers against her thighs. She can’t safe word right after he says that, he’ll think she’s cheating, being weak, and she doesn’t _need_ to yet, she can hold it another–oh! Mm! _Oh!_

_Not yet, not yet, not yet…._

It’s a litany in her brain, a mantra to keep her from toppling over the edge, and then her belly is stiffening, her thighs clenching, a desperate moan raking itself from her throat. And then he’s gone.

Robin pulls his fingers from her and just leaves her there like that, on the edge, desperate, her eyes squeezed shut and her breath held for a moment until it rushes out on a little noise of protest. 

She feels his lips press to her shoulder, hears him murmur a soft, “Good girl,” but her mind is still reeling from the sudden stop in sensation. Her thighs are still twitchy, and she clenches once around fingers that are no longer inside her. 

Damnit.

She should never have agreed to this, this is going to be hell. (It’s going to be amazing.)

“Do you want to be on your belly or your back first for the crop, love?” he asks her, fingertips skimming down her back and making her shiver. 

All she can think is there’s no way she won’t come on the spot if he crops her right now. If she’s on her back, it’ll be breasts and thighs; on her belly, ass and thighs. Her nipples aren’t as sore as they were, she doesn’t think, but—

“Answer me, love. I’m waiting. Three… two...”

“Back, Sir,” she blurts, not particularly inclined to discover what the end of that countdown would hold if she lacked a timely response. 

His lips press softly to her shoulder again, all hint of threat gone from his voice as he instructs, “Lie back; arms up.”

Her knee pops a little as Regina shifts from her current position, a reminder that kneeling that way isn’t getting any easier as she gets older. But the discomfort is momentary, and now that she’s made a decision, Robin doesn’t seem to be in any rush. She settles onto her back, works her knee out once, twice, and then lets her legs settle open on the table, stretching languidly and adjusting the pillow under her head before she raises her arms, too. 

Robin toys idly with the blindfold as she situates herself (he’s loosened the knot from before and is running the scarf again and again through his fingers as he waits for her). Then he sets it on the table and reaches for her wrists. Regina watches this time as he pulls a length of silk from beneath the table and carefully secures one wrist, and then the other. She arches up into his touch as he trails his fingertips feather-light down her chest, her belly, dipping down to tease between her swollen, slick lips before he continues on over thigh, knee, calf, before pulling her ankle gently into place and reaching for another length of silk. 

Her breath is thick, labored; she should let him tie her like this more often. It’s incredibly hot. 

(She has a brief thought of a sex tape, of getting to watch him do all the deliciously naughty things he does to her, but then she thinks of the absolute mortification that could come from anyone at all but _especially_ anyone under her roof discovering it, and she nixes that idea before she can even lend voice to it.)

Once he’s tied off both ankles, he walks back toward her, reaching down and grabbing something from the chair.

The crop.

She swallows thickly. 

_Finally_. 

Robin sets it on her belly and leaves it there, then reaches for the scarf he’s been using to blindfold her. 

The crop wobbles a little with every breath she takes, the slim strip of leather cool against her heated skin. She knows better than to dislodge it, trying to keep her breaths even and shallow as Robin leans down to kiss her lips once, sweetly. 

“Are you ready?”

“God, yes. Sir.”

“Do you want the blindfold, or do you want to watch?”

As attractive as the idea of watching him wield the crop always is, Regina swallows thickly, and admits, “I want the dark, Sir.”

He grins, and then it’s lights out. 

The blindfold settles over her eyes, Regina lifting her head dutifully so he can secure it, then settling back to the cushion. 

For a moment, there’s nothing. For thirty-some-odd seconds, there’s just silence, and the crop resting on her belly, and anticipation.

When Regina feels the crop lift away, she presses her lips together, fingers wrapping around the strips of silk at her wrists. She hadn’t asked where he was going to aim first, and the not-knowing has excited nerves skittering under her skin. She could ask; he probably wouldn’t mind. But the nerves are part of the fun, right?

She doesn’t have to wait much longer to find out, a light, stinging pain flaring where the crop hits the underside of her right breast. It wasn’t a particularly hard hit (he’s warming her up, no doubt), but it still has her sucking in a breath through her nose, her grip tightening reflexively on her ties. He does it again, again, again, little stinging taps all along the lower curve of her right breast, and then her left. He’s done this before when she was standing, when the weight of her breasts made them easier, fleshier targets, and when she’d already taken fifteen swats to her ass. He hadn’t been so gentle and kind then, and she’d winced at the friction of her underwire over bruised skin the next morning. The memory makes her wetter, has her moaning at the next stinging impact and arching up slightly to chase it.

Robin makes a soft sound, a sort of hum in the back of his throat; the next impact is hard enough to make her jerk and let out a muffled shout behind closed lips. 

“Pain or surprise?” he asks just before she feels the warmth of his palm against her breast, kneading the sensitive flesh, his thumb rubbing back and forth across a stiff nipple. 

“Surprise, Sir,” she gasps, even though it had hurt quite a bit. But she can handle pain, especially like this, aroused and eager. She likes the pain, it was the switch in intensity that had thrown her.

He murmurs a quiet, “Good,” and then does it again on her other breast, once more, again, leaving little hot, burning patches in his wake.

When the crop lands on her nipple (not quite so hard this time, but enough to bite) she hisses and arcs her back and moans. 

Predictably, she hears Robin’s voice again, soft and soothing as he asks, “Too much?”

Regina shakes her head firmly. “ _No,_ Sir. No. They’re just sensitive.”

“Mm. They’ve had a lot of attention today,” he agrees, and then sends her reeling with a strike to the other one. “So many different sensations.” Again, and she bites her lip hard, her eyes tearing suddenly behind the blindfold. 

She’s not sure why—it’s not outside her limits, and the pain is bearable. Enjoyable even—she wants him to do it again, wants to feel that bite and burn over and over until the lace of her bra tomorrow feels like sweet torture. 

Robin doesn’t disappoint, continuing to give her nipples a few more light, teasing strikes as he muses on, “Soft and tickly, and cold, and sharp, and now this… Tell me, love, which was your favorite?”

He asks her just as he aims another hard smack to her lower breast and it shorts her brain out so much that all she can do is moan and fist the ties around her wrists. She feels another strike to the side of her ribs and jerks, one falls on her hip and she hisses, thighs clenching.

“I asked you something, love. Be a good girl and answer me.”

“This!” she manages to gasp. “Oh, Sir, don’t stop. Please.”

She sniffles slightly, still teary, and is unsurprised (but very disappointed) when he does exactly the opposite of what she’s asked, and stops for a moment.

“Are you alright, love?”

She insists that she is, gives him a breathless, shaky, “Yes, Sir,” but he’s not buying it. 

There’s light, again, suddenly, Robin pushing up her blindfold skimming his thumb over her cheekbone. She blinks her eyes open to find him frowning down at her in concern. 

“You’re crying.”

“Only a little, and I have no idea why,” she tells him, blinking to clear the dampness from her lashes as best she can without her hands free. 

“Do you need a break?”

“No, I’m fine, really,” she insists again. “It’s just been… a lot of sensation, like you said. Please keep going.”

“Alright,” he acquiesces, seemingly convinced that she’s telling the truth. But he doesn’t pull the blindfold down again until after he’s given her a thorough kiss and murmured, “I love you,” against her lips.

“I love you too,” she whispers. “So much. Thank you for this; it’s exactly how I pictured it.”

His lips curve at that, pressing to hers again sweetly. “Good.”

And then the blindfold slides down again, and she’s back in the comfort of darkness, her skin throbbing pleasantly where he’d struck it. 

She expects him to go back to what he’d been doing, but instead he tells her, “Your breasts are all rosy. I think they’ve had enough.” 

Regina lets out a little moan of protest, although she knows he’s probably right. 

He aims the next thwap at the top of her thigh, her mouth going dry at the promise of where he’s headed. She loves this. Loves the crop almost everywhere it’s safe to use it, but _especially_ here. Her thighs are sensitive, and it probably doesn’t help matters that they’re intimate and easy to conceal. She can wear his marks on her there and nobody will be the wiser, so they’re a frequent landing point for sharp palms or hot wax or the bite of leather. Or teeth. God, one time he’d used his teeth and just the memory makes her swoon. 

As always, she breathes, “No marks where they can be seen, Sir.”

“I know, my love. We wouldn’t want to traumatize the children.”

“Or the adult children,” she chuckles, thinking of just how horrified Snow would be if Regina ever had to explain a constellation of bite marks.

Robin answers her quiet laugh with one of his own, then lets the crop fall again and again on the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, varying tempo and intensity in a way that keeps her from getting too comfortable. All she can do is pant, and gasp, and twitch, and get wetter and wetter and wetter.

Her thighs are throbbing pleasantly by the time he says to her, “My love…”

“Yes, Sir?” she asks, her voice gone low and rough; God, this is everything she imagined it would be and more.

“Tomorrow… I’d like you to wear those snug slacks that drive me so mad for you…”

She knows just the ones—they’re skinny-legged and make her ass look _great_.

“...so that you can feel the seams rubbing on your thighs all day.”

The crop lands on her inner thigh again, and Regina realizes with a moan that while he’s been varying the _sensation_ of every strike, their location has been anything but random. He’s landed a smattering of swats to the tops of her thighs—enough for the skin there to feel pleasantly at attention—but the majority of them have been up and down the insides of her thighs right where the seams would hit. 

She wants to see it, suddenly. Wants to see the red marks, and the flush, and the sweat. 

“You can pick my whole outfit, Sir,” she promises, lifting her head slightly, and offering, “If you’ll take off the blindfold.”

“Oh, are we making bargains now?” he asks her, in that too-detached tone that makes her clench. It usually means she’s being cheeky—and maybe she is, but he _had_ offered to do this with her eyes free, so it doesn’t exactly feel like a rebellion.

And besides, she knows she can get him to give in by telling him, “I want to see your marks on me, Sir.”

Robin makes this soft sound, almost a moan but not quite, and Regina has to fight not to smirk. “You want to see how you’re mine?” he asks, and she nods.

“Yes, Sir, all yours. Show me the proof.”

“I’d say the proof is in you being trussed to the table,” he tells her casually, but he slides the blindfold up nonetheless. 

Regina lifts her head and cranes it down as best she can, trying to get a good view. (He was right about her breasts, they’re peppered with red marks, her nipples hard from all the stimulation.)

“Or maybe…” Robin continues, drawing the crop teasingly up her inner thigh until the end of it rubs against her sex. Regina drops her head back again and moans at the contact, at the soft warmth of leather caressing where she’s so, _so_ ready. “...the proof is right here. Can you feel how wet you are, love?”

“Yes, Sir,” she moans, biting her lip as he drags the tip of the crop up through her folds and over her clit. She’s not lying—she’s soaked, so wet she can feel it dripping down her ass when she squirms. 

He keeps the crop on her clit, giving it lazy up-and-down strokes as he muses, “I bet you’d come so easily right now, wouldn’t you? All I’d have to do is say the word and you’d be over the edge before you knew it.”

Regina nods, clenching against the rising sensations he’s drawing out of her. It’s some of the most direct attention she’s had on her clit all afternoon, and she’s hungry for more, for that moment when everything surges and pops and releases. But she’s also enjoying the ache (God, this month is going to be such wonderful hell), and isn’t sure she wants it to end. Not _quite_ yet. 

She’s hungry, but she’s not desperate. 

And Robin knows it, giving her clit a light tap with the crop that makes her throw her head back and gasp, before he asks, “But you’ve still got a bit more patience in you yet, don’t you, my love?”

“Yes, Sir,” she breathes as she relaxes back into the glass beneath her, her breath still heavy and quick. 

“I think… your bum needs a turn with the crop, don’t you?”

“Mm. Yes, Sir. Always, Sir.”

Robin chuckles, setting the crop on the table beside her hip before his touch skims down from knee to ankle and begins to untie the knot there. 

“Always so eager,” he praises. “Just imagine what it’s going to be like when you haven’t come for two weeks and I bend you over the chaise to redden your bum good and proper.”

“God,” Regina groans. “I’m going to die.”

“No,” he corrects, reaching for the other ankle. “You’re going to be a good little girl, and hold back for me. Because you know the consequence if you don’t.”

“I’ll never make it two months,” she argues, interrupting herself to ask, “Is it okay if I shift?” and bending her knees when he gives her permission as he rounds the table headed for her wrists. She continues, “I know you said that’s the punishment, but… that sounds impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible, love, least of all obedience.”

“You have an awful lot of confidence in my resolve,” she muses, her stomach doing a little fluttery flop when he gives her one of those wide, stunning grins of his and tells her, _Since the day we met, milady._

Once her wrists are free, she stretches properly, her back giving several satisfying pops as she arches and twists, and tries dutifully to ignore the throb and ache between her thighs for a moment. He won’t give her permission to come until after he’s finished with the crop, she knows that well enough, so the more she can try to push the need away, the better.

Sitting up doesn’t help matters, though—her thighs close in a way that makes her clit ache, and something about the way she shifts makes her _very_ aware of how absolutely soaked she is. She licks her lips and shuts her eyes for a moment, treats herself to one good clench (and the ripple of pleasure that chases it) while he’s busy pouring her another cup of water.

She’s sitting dutifully on the edge of the table, the smooth surface cool against where she’s so hot, when he brings the glass to her and holds it out. 

“When you’ve drunk this all up,” he begins, waiting until she’s sipping (that jerk) to finish, “I’d like you to go bend over the arm of the sofa, and wait for me.”

Regina swallows heavily and nods, answering softly, “Yes, sir.”

By the time she takes the next sip his hands are on her knees, then skimming up her thighs, parting them firm strokes over her heated, abused skin. She moans into her next sip, then nearly chokes on it when his fingers don’t stop until two are pressed lightly to her swollen clit. 

She swallows and moves to set the rest of her drink down, but his tone brooks no disobedience as he reminds her, “All of it, young lady.”

She pauses before glass meets glass, lifting it back toward her lips with a nod as his fingertips begin to circle teasingly. She sips again, thighs twitching at those slow circles. 

“You… are so wet…”

“I am, Sir,” she breathes; his touch firms ever so slightly and her lashes flutter.

So much for letting the need abate for a moment before he uses the crop on her rear end.

“I can’t wait to be inside you. To feel you coming around me.”

Her moan at that particular promise reverberates in the glass just before she gulps deep. The faster she finishes the water, the faster she gets his fingertips off her clit (who knew _that_ was something she’d be hoping for?).

“You won’t come before then, will you, milady?”

“No, Sir,” Regina gasps, moaning as her head lolls back for a moment on a particularly satisfying swirl. “I’ll be good. So good, I promise.”

“I believe it,” he praises, urging, “Drink up, love; you’re almost done.”

Right. Drinking. She’s supposed to be drinking. She takes one more gulp, finishing half of what’s left in the glass and leaving just one good glug behind. So, naturally, Robin’s slow, leisurely circles go suddenly firm, and swift, working her clit over hard enough to make her cry out softly, somersaulting toward the edge at a perilous pace. She feels her belly heat and tighten, the telltale beginnings of release, and rushes to swallow down the rest of her water. 

The tumbler hits the tabletop with a loud crack of glass on glass, and Robin’s touch disappears immediately, leaving Regina with a trembling need to come, and a jaw dropped and gasping. 

“Are you close?” he wonders, his smug tone making it clear her damn well knows the answer to that. 

“Yes, Sir.” Her voice is all breath, her fingertips curling around the edge of the table and squeezing hard as she fights not to shift a muscle from knees to hips lest she accidentally set herself off somehow.

“Are you supposed to be sitting here, now that your drink is finished?” he asks, in that same smug tone, and Regina squeezes her eyes shut, shakes her head. 

God, she has to get up and walk across the room like this. Right on the precipice, everything still drawn tight and tremulous. 

“I’m sorry, Sir,” she near-moans. “I just needed a moment. I don’t want to come.”

“Oh, you don’t?” he wonders in a way that makes her regret ever having said the words at all. She looks to him sharply, a little bit panicked because she is not at all surprised at what he says next: “So we can just start your month now, then? If you don’t want an orgasm.”

“No!” Regina insists, shaking her head. “I _do_ , Sir. Just… not until you say so. It’s yours to give, and you haven’t. I wanted to be obedient.”

Robin’s head tilts to the side, his fingertips settling on her knees again, his voice gone low and private, sexy, as he urges, “Say that again.”

“Which part, Sir?”

“You know which; don’t be coy.”

She does know—for all his hesitation toward this at first, he’s become remarkably charmed by the element of control, of dominance. Of owning her pleasure, as much as she will let herself be owned.

So Regina shakes her hair back, gives him some good bedroom eyes, and repeats, “My pleasure is yours to give, Sir. When I come, I want my orgasm to please _you_. It should happen when you want it, and no sooner.”

“Because you’re mine?”

“Because I’m yours, Sir,” she nods, lifting her hands from the table and letting them slide up the bare skin of his chest, over his shoulders, winding around his neck.

He ducks in and steals a kiss from her (freely given, so not really stolen, after all), then drops another on her jaw, the side of her neck, his breath washing against her as he murmurs, “You’ve no idea how much I love that you’ve entrusted me with something so precious. All of your pleasure, right here in my hands.” His tongue does something delightful where neck meets shoulder and all she can do is let out a breathy _Mmhmm_ and enjoy. “I cannot wait to spend a whole month keeping it safe.”

Fuck. She should never have agreed to that (she’s so glad she agreed to that).

His teeth catch her collarbone lightly, not really a bite so much as a brief, gentle grip, and then he’s patting her thigh and urging, “Now go bend over the couch like I instructed you to, you spoiled, spoiled girl.”

Regina chuckles warmly in the back of her throat—her flirtation had managed to earn her a momentary reprieve from moving when she was so close and they both know it. So she’s earned the cheeky wink she gives him as she grins, “Yes, Sir,” and scoots down from the table.

She wobbles for a half-second, getting her footing again after spending so long on her back, and she can feel the wetness between her thighs with each and every one of the strides that carry her from table to couch. Robin doesn’t follow, but she hadn’t expected him to—not until she’s just the way he’d asked her to be: she bends over the arm of the sofa, ass in the air, feet flat on the floor. 

Something about being bent _over_ something like this makes her hot. Makes her feel like a very naughty girl in need of a spanking—she doesn’t want to think too hard on _why_ she gets off on that, but it’s enough to know that she _does_. Her toes wiggle, she drops her brow to the soft surface of the sofa. 

And then Robin orders from across the room, “Closer. I want your thighs pressed right against it, and your belly down as low as you can go, darling.”

Regina scoots another step closer, until the arm of the sofa presses against the pinkened skin of her thighs, then relaxes her shoulders even more, moaning when her overstimulated nipples brush against the sofa. 

God, that bastard. 

He planned this.

She clenches her fingers in the sofa cushions as she feels the evidence of their afternoon all over. And then she feels him behind her, a little shift in the air currents, a sort of warmth, and the slim leather of the crop balancing on the apex of her hips. 

“Gods above, you really are a picture, Regina,” he murmurs to her, his voice hushed and marveled as one hand skims up the back of her thigh. Up, up, up, until he’s stroking over her sex and sinking a finger into her. She bites her lip, but he’s the one who moans. “You’ll get twenty from the crop,” he tells her thickly, fingers sliding nearly out, then slipping back in and thumping once against her G-spot. (Her toes curl, her breath huffs out.) “And then I’m going to fuck you for a full minute before you’re allowed to come; do you understand, love?”

“I do, Sir,” she gasps as his fingers draw out and then sink in again. Fuck, he’s a bastard. A delicious, delightful, teasing _bastard_.

“You’ll count each second, each thrust, and if you make it through all sixty, you’ll be allowed to come as much as you want for the rest of the afternoon. If you don’t make it…” Out again, slowly, then in, pressing down; her toes curl, her thighs clench. “That’s it. You get only the one.”

Regina moans out a protest and nods, but says nothing. 

Her silence is met with, “Five more with the crop for not answering me properly, young lady.”

She doesn’t mean to breathe, “Fuck,” but very intentionally tells him, “Yes, Sir. I understand, Sir. Please, Sir, stop teasing.”

“Oh, stop teasing?” he asks, and fuck, _fuck_ , she should just keep her mouth _shut_. Because he complies with her request rather expediently, his fingers slipping away, the crop plucked from its balancing rest on her rear, and falling a moment later, hard. And repeatedly. 

He hadn’t asked her to count them, but she does anyway, a knee-jerk blurt of, “One! Two! Three! Four!” with every thumping, stinging impact to her upturned cheeks. She makes it to ten before he gentles his blows—but aims them right at her sit spots. Every one makes her squirm, drives her thighs against the sofa to remind her of the private soreness she’ll be delighting in tomorrow, drags her breasts over the soft upholstery and keeps her nipples hard as pebbles. 

God, this is the best birthday _ever_. Even when her voice begins to shake at “Eighteen! Nineteen!”, her nails digging into the cushions as “Twenty!” makes her ass jiggle, she can’t help thinking how _alive_ she feels. She can feel her blood pumping beneath her skin, rushing to the surface to redden every whap, making her sex even more swollen and sensitive. And then he aims a gentle, teasing tap at her clit and she cries out, “Oh, God!” and “Apple! Apple!”

Robin stops, immediately (always stops, immediately, at her safe word), one warm palm settling on her sacrum to anchor her. 

“What is it?” he asks, concern coloring his voice. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m going to come,” she pants. “If you do that, if you tap my clit like that, I _will_ come; I won’t be able to stop it.”

His thumb strokes over a little red patch as he asks, “You’re certain?”

Regina cranes her head to look at him and points out, “I safe-worded.”

“Fair enough,” he agrees, palm rubbing once from hip to hip and back. “But you want to continue, otherwise?”

“God, yes, Sir,” she answers, being mindful to use his title so he knows they’re back in play. She cannot, absolutely cannot, handle five light taps of the crop to her clit right now. She feels alive, electric, on edge. Needy. _Hot_. If he’s giving attention to her clit, there damn well better be an orgasm coming at the end of it, if she has any chance of holding out at all.

So when he asks her, “Do you want your last five, or are you ready for my cock?” she moans and damns herself to exercising her restraint.

“Your cock, God, please, Sir, I need you. I’ve been waiting so long; I _need_ you. I need to come.”

The crop hits the coffee table nearby with a dull, thunking clatter; she hears the metallic clink of his belt buckle, the scratch of his zipper, the soft sound his pants hitting the floor. And then she feels the warmth of him, the smooth heat of his skin against hers as his cock parts her folds. When he sinks in, they both moan, her ass pushing back out of reflex to welcome him even deeper before she clenches hard on him, a ripple of bliss spreading out from the long-awaited invasion.

“You feel incredible, darling,” he praises, hands squeezing her bum (it aches; it makes her hotter). “And that one doesn’t count.”

She groans. Of course it doesn’t. Bastard.

“Do you remember the rules, young lady?”

“Yes, Sir,” Regina gasps. “If I come before sixty, I don’t come again until March.”

“And if you make it?”

“I get to come all I want, Sir.”

“I’m so generous,” he sighs, all puffed up about himself as he gives her another squeeze. 

Regina snorts a laugh. _Generous, my ass_ , she thinks. Sadistic, more like it. But she gives an obedient (if a bit sassy), “Yes, Sir; of course, Sir,” in response. 

Robin chuckles and draws back, sinking in again, and Regina breathes, “Sixty.”

Out again, slowly, then back in, “Fifty-nine.”

Out, in, “Fifty-eight.”

She could count each thrust in Mississippis or steamboats—each one timed to the second. One minute of restraint is what he’s asked for, and the pace may be slow and steady, but God, she is _ready_ to come. And every thump lines up just right, sliding against her g-spot, knocking her thighs into the sofa’s edge, thunking his hips against her reddened rear, grazing her nipples against the upholstery. 

She’s curling her toes by, “Forty-nine.”

Moaning each number by, “Forty-two! F-Forty-one!”

He puts a little snap into it on, “Forty, oh, _fuck_ , Sir!”

“Are you ready to come?” he asks, drawing out for the first few words, then pushing in hard on _come_.

“Thirty-nine, oh, yes, Sir, please, _please_ , may I?”

“Mm, so polite.” _Thirty-eight._ “But no.”

“Unh! Thirty-seven!”

By thirty-two, she’s shaking. Fisting the cushions and moaning as he pushes in deep again. She feels a ripple again, a streaking heat that only stokes higher as he thumps in for “Thirty! OH! Oh, God, Sir, please, stop, I’msocloseplease.”

Her pleas fall on deaf ears, “Twenty-nine! Oh, God, _oh god!_ ” making her almost frantic as her clit throbs and everything tightens, her sex clenching around his cock.

Robin goes still as Regina moans and moans and bites the cushion beneath her.

“Don’t come, don’t you dare come,” he warns. She knows the stakes but he reminds her anyway: “I’ll stop right now.”

She’s not coming, she’s _not_ coming. She’s so close she can taste it, so close that one wrong shift would send her over, but she has—oh, God—twenty-eight more thrusts to last through and she will not start a month of no orgasms on a half-assed stumble into one because she couldn’t rein it in.

Heat ripples through her belly in little waves, threatening to spill over and slosh her into disobedience, but Regina grits her teeth and focuses inward. Focuses away from where they’re joined, away from the pleasant stretch of his cock inside her, the slick slip-and-slide of their bodies coming together and apart, the thick knot of tension that is her clit right right now. (If he touches her clit, if he so much as _breathes_ on her clit, she will lose it entirely.)

Robin, thankfully, is giving her the moment she needs to get herself under control (it seems he’s generous, after all). His palms are rubbing slow, lazy circles over her ass (another pleasant distraction for her mind), his voice a bit ragged but still firmly in control as he instructs, “Tell me when you’re ready, but do _not_ be greedy, milady.”

“Yes, Sir,” Regina groans roughly into the cushions, her thighs twitching.

“You’re ready?”

She shakes her head vehemently, corrects, “NO, Sir. I just… I underst-stand, Sir.”

“Good.” One of those pleasantly circling hands lifting and then falling with a tantalizing _smack!_

Regina moans harshly, clenching again and trying not to let the burning pop of sensation push her over the edge.

It takes a few more seconds, but she feels the edge she’d been flirting with start to play coy again, drawing back, slipping from her fingertips.

She blows out an unsteady breath, and urges, “Now, Sir.”

Strong hands squeeze her hips and he reminds her, “This is twenty-eight,” then pulls back and sinks in deep.

“Twenty-eight… Twenty-six… Twenty-five… Twenty- _four…_ ” Her little respite had brought her back from the brink, but not by much. She’s moaning again by twenty, toes clenched, one hand sliding back to fist in her own hair on, “Oh, god, Sir, nineteen.” It feels like he speeds up then, or maybe time goes funny when you’re riding the edge of an orgasm for this long. 

It’s only been a minute, God, how has it only been _a minute_? She has less than half a minute left, less than sixteen seconds, she can make it another fifteen even if he’s moving faster, harder, “Thirteen! Twelve! Oh, fuck, Robin, _eleven!_ ”

The last ten are sheer torture, the anticipation of impending release combining with the way he is _definitely_ fucking her faster, faster, harder, thumping down against her g-spot until she’s hollering, “FOUR! THREE! T-TWO OH FUCK, FUCK! ONE!”

“Come, Regina,” he tells her on the next thrust, and God, does she ever.

Orgasm roars up through her middle, that heat she’d been keeping at bay consuming her whole, making her cry out and buck, and then he starts to _really_ fuck her, quick and hard and satisfying. Regina’s knees buckle, her weight sagging against the arm of the couch as he takes her again and again and again while she trembles and shouts and _comes_ , hard. 

And then, just when she thinks the wave has finally crested, he’s adjusting her, a hand gripping her shoulder and tugging her up (she helps, clumsily, fumbling to prop herself up on the arm of the sofa, one hand gripping the back hard). He ruts into her quick and firm, the angle somehow even _better_ , thumping him right against her g-spot, her clit rubbing against the arm of the sofa now in a way it wasn’t before, and the friction is exquisite.

“Oh, _yes, Sir!_ ” she encourages, toes slipping slightly against the marble beneath them, fingernails digging into upholstery until she’s afraid she’ll rip it—but then she’s on the precipice of another orgasm and couldn’t care less about the furniture. She can fix that later.

She hears him, dimly, through the raging inferno of her pleasure—the telling grunts of effort and appreciation he’s letting out, the half-formed words of pleasure and praise that tumble from him.

He’s close—and that just won’t do.

She’s only come once—is just about to topple over again—but she’ll be damned if that’s all she gets. Not with the month she has coming. 

Regina reaches back and gives his hip a shove, worming a hand between them until she can circle her fingers around the base of his cock. A little pulse of magic sparks between them and Robin hisses sharply.

“Gods! What did you—”

“A little magical Viagra,” she pants, not that he’ll get the reference anyway. “You’ll stay hard even if you come. I’m not done yet, and you’re nearly there.”

Robin lets out a low groan, his brow falling to her shoulder before he nods. “How long will it last?”

“Half an hour or so?” It’s not a particularly exact science, and she’s a bit off her game at the moment. But it’ll be long enough for them to both fuck their fill of each other, she knows that. Regina reaches back, gropes blindly for his ass and tugs him hard against her, issuing a challenge: “Let’s see how many times you can make me come before it wears off.”

Robin just moans, and complies, picking up the same hard, swift pace he’d been at before. She’s coming again in less than thirty seconds, and he’s not far behind—the sensation of orgasm swamping him but without the mess or the inconvenient refractory period.

They slow, both of them oversensitive, hips twitching and rocking, rending and sewing. They slow, but don’t stop. 

She loses count, and he does too, somewhere north of four but shy of seven, when a particularly hard thrust as he’d crested again without releasing had made something in her middle seize, a hard, staccato tremor of an orgasm that she thinks might have gone on long enough to qualify as two?

By the time he comes inside her, they’ve abandoned the arm of the couch to stretch across the cushions. Regina is on her back, Robin’s body covering hers, both of them dripping with sweat, limbs slip-sliding against each other. She’s arched in bliss, nails raking red trails down his back, when he humps in hard, lets out a cry of satisfaction more relieved than any before, her name tumbling after it in broken pieces—“Re—gi—n—ohh!”—and then goes limp, spent. 

He's heavy atop her—something she used to hate when it was another man, in another time, another land—but doesn’t mind so much when it’s him, and here, and now. When they reek of sex and salt and sweat, his hair a finger-combed mess, hers curling at the roots from damp heat and exertion. Her middle hollowed out in the best possible way.

For several long minutes, the only sound is her hammering heart, their labored breaths, and the still silence of satisfaction.

And then, finally, Robin grunts and lifts his head, his torso, settling onto his elbows and finding her mouth for a sloppy, tongue-filled kiss. Regina tips her chin up into it, clumsy hands finding slick ribs and holding him tight; her legs are vibrating like plucked harp strings, and he’s still buried deep inside her even though he’s beginning to go soft. 

When their mouths part, he gives her a dopey smile, one she’s sure she returns in kind as she laughs softly and marvels, “ _That_ was the best sex I’ve ever had in my life.”

Robin chuckles smugly, stealing another kiss. “Me too,” he admits, and then, “I hope those orgasms were satisfying, milady. Because it’s twenty-seven days until your next one.”

Regina groans, laughing and turning her head toward his bicep as she tries to memorize the way she feels right now. Satisfied and post-orgasmic. Blissed out. It’s going to be a long, long time before she feels it again. 

Robin’s lips find her neck, planting a garden of affection up her pulse, until he reaches her ear, and murmurs, “Happy birthday, my love.”

Happy birthday, indeed.


End file.
